The first sound was not a voice.
It was a vibration — low, resonant, echoing in the marrow. The air thickened with it, every breath burning like smoke.
Nyra stood at the edge of the clearing, hair shifting like embers in the wind, eyes unfocused. The Flame wasn't whispering anymore. It was singing.
I could hear it too, faint and discordant, bleeding through the tether that bound us. It wasn't meant for me, and yet it still found a way in. Each note scraped against my ribs, pulling memories that weren't mine — flashes of old wars, names of forgotten gods, the sound of fire consuming cities made of glass.
"Nyra," I said, but my voice barely reached her.
The horizon pulsed again. The light there wasn't dawn — it was the wound widening. From it came shapes: silhouettes made of ash and gold, their edges flickering in and out of the visible world.
They moved like they remembered her.
"Don't answer them," I managed. The bond thrummed painfully between us. "You don't know what they are."
She turned, and for a moment, I didn't recognize her. The heat in her eyes was not entirely human — too bright, too knowing. "You think I have a choice?"
"You always do."
Her expression softened, just slightly. "That's what you tell yourself to sleep at night."
The words hit harder than they should have. She stepped closer, and the world bent with her, the ash stirring beneath her feet like it bowed in recognition. I reached for her, but the air between us shimmered, a living barrier. The bond flared, and pain ripped through me — hers and mine, indistinguishable.
And then, as quickly as it came, it broke.
The silence after was worse than the sound.
When I looked up again, she was gone. Only the scent of fire lingered — sharp, sweet, ancient.
But through the echoing emptiness of the bond, I heard her whisper, distant and steady:
"It's not the Flame that's calling, Kael. It's what lies beneath it."